


indulge me

by velteris



Category: Princess Principal (Anime)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12623412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velteris/pseuds/velteris
Summary: post-episode 3. Princess takes Ange's treatment into her own hands.





	indulge me

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from my tumblr where you'll find much more pripri content

It’s been some time since she’s seen so much blood, come to think of it.

She used to dance till she wore great red sores in the soles of her feet, until they got used to it and she stopped having to bandage before every ball. There were always the odd papercut incidents, too, and needle pricks when her attention drifted while embroidering. But she hasn’t even had the luxury of a skinned knee for years now. A princess’s body was meant to be admired, adorned, not active.

Which makes it quite the shock when Dorothy pulls up the car and she sees her own face covered in blood.

Beatrice is making distraught noises, dabbing at Ange’s face with scraps of parachute. Ange bears it in taut silence; her eyes dart to Princess’s once, then away, resting somewhere above Beatrice’s head.

Princess bites her tongue, swallows metal and worry and a name that can’t be spoken now. Dorothy rolls over her silence and takes the first words instead: “What happened?”

“Beatrice decided to stow away,” says Ange as Beatrice bursts out, “It won’t stop bleeding!”

Dorothy swings over the side of the car. Belatedly, Princess opens the ignored car door, but for some reason, her feet carry her to the edge of the blooming parachute and no farther.

“Hold your bangs back for me,” Dorothy orders, suddenly sounding every inch of her age.

Ange obeys mutely. Dorothy slicks back a few bloody strands, fingers dyeing red, and inspects the sluggishly-bleeding head wound. She sighs and pronounces the verdict: “Deep but small. It’s probably only bleeding so much because of the sky-dive. Get in the car; we have bandages, but we can probably sew you up at base better.”

“Ange,” says Princess. Training straightens her back; instinct shivers down her arms. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t worry,” says Ange. Her eyes are cloudy. Princess counts the minutes between the phone call and their arrival, multiplies it by drip rate, and comes to an uncomfortably high amount of blood loss. “All Black Lizard Planet natives bleed like this. We’re fragile, you see.”

“Fragile my ass,” says Dorothy. “Come on, in you get. Beatrice, Princess, give me a hand with this parachute, it’s a dead giveaway.”

She spends the whole car ride planning, juggling what she knows of each of the other girls’ personalities and responsibilities. Here is a talent she’s cultivated over countless public appearances, sizing up her allies and enemies and in-betweens with three sentences and a well-placed smile, playing them against each other as best as she knows how.

So. To Dorothy, she says, “You must need to make your reports immediately. Please, allow us to take care of Ange’s wounds.”

Dorothy eyes her doubtfully. “Do you know any first-aid?”

She knows swiping cut fingers along dusty windowsills instead of a bandage, and pouring filthy, salty water over a chimney-sweep’s soot burns, and conning passersby into buying useless tonics of unknown chemicals with a sweet smile for enough money to buy a bread loaf. “I’m good at embroidery,” she says instead. “And Ange can instruct us, can’t she?”

To Beatrice, she says, “Beato, would you mind letting us be? I know you don’t like the sight of blood.”

As expected, Beatrice blanches at the mere mention, but she lifts her chin stubbornly. “I can help!”

Princess is so proud of her tiny follower. She also mentally apologises as she drops her voice from soft to severe and says, “Beato. I also need to speak with Ange in private, to apologise for your behaviour today. Ange could have been seriously hurt by your reckless decision.”

It works, oh help her. Beatrice looks like a kicked puppy, but slinks off mumbling about preparing tea for them once they’re finished. Princess promises herself to make amends later and soothe Beatrice’s guilt.

But it’s all worth it when, finally, she can say: “Come here, Charlotte, put your head in my lap.”

Ange gives her an incredulous look. It doesn’t work as well when she only has one eye open. “I’ll get blood all over your clothes.”

Princess draws a towel over her lap and looks at Ange expectantly. Ange’s cheeks go from wan to rose-tinged wan; her one eye darts off to the side.

“Before you bleed out, please,” Princess says.

Ange obeys.

It’s a slow, hesitant process, and Princess treasures every moment of it, of Ange closing the distance between them. She sits on the bed, smoothing wrinkles out self-consciously; scoots a little closer, then a little further, like a cautious animal. Princess waits.

Her legs swing up onto the bed, and she turns her back to Princess. Ange’s neck is speckled with soot and airship grime. So is her hair, and Princess wonders if she can convince Ange to let her wash her hair.

Ange leans back, and stops as a drop of blood hits the covers. She opens her mouth.

“No,” says Princess, and cups one hand around the back of Ange’s head, puts the other hand on Ange’s sternum, and press-press-presses her down until her lap is full of grey hair and startled blue eyes.

(From this angle, Ange looks so young.)

Princess’s hand moves over her tools, selects thin cotton wipes and a small bowl of water. “Close your eyes,” she orders, and starts to clean Ange’s face.

It’s not too deep a cut, but head wounds always bleed like one. It curves up along Ange’s hairline till whatever hit Ange presumably met Ange’s braid and stopped, and tapers off over Ange’s eyebrow at the other end. A little blood wells up sluggishly when the wipe passes over the cut. The skin around Ange’s eyes tighten, but she says nothing and makes no sound.

“Sorry,” Princess whispers anyway - and at last, Ange makes eye contact.

“It’s alright. You’re doing fine.”

“You’re going to have to tell me what to do soon,” she admits. “I told Dorothy as much.”

With a concrete task, Ange relaxes. “You’ll need to stitch it. Dorothy gave you the first-aid kit? Good - give me an alcohol wipe while you sterilise the needle and thread…”

Princess works in near silence, keyed to Ange’s instructions. She only hesitates once - right before the needle goes into the skin - until Ange takes a slightly deeper breath, and it’s interesting how they haven’t been reunited for more than a few days yet Princess already knows that’s Ange for  _stop stalling_. Then her hands fall into a familiar rhythm.

Thankfully, it’s only a few stitches. Eager to help though she may be, Princess doesn’t think she could have stood more than that minute of seeing Ange’s skin shudder under her hands, knowing that she’s hurting Ange. Ange’s grim silence only makes it worse.

“There,” she says lightly, trying not to show how shaken she was. “I don’t think it was badly done, if I might say so.”

Ange pats carefully at the stitches and nods approval. Then it’s just one more sterilising wipe and the small bandage.

“Thank you,” says Ange, peering up at her from her lap. Memory stabs through Princess’s heart; her face is sharper, the baby fat worn away, but Princess remembers seeing a little girl who carefully sticks a similar bandage onto her nose, grins at Princess, and runs off past the castle walls…

Princess smooths her thumb over the edges of Ange’s bandage. “Anything for you,” she murmurs.

This close, she can see Ange’s shoulders tense, her collarbones standing stark. Princess frowns and makes a meaningless soothing sound, carding her fingers through Ange’s bangs, trying to relax her.

“That’s… I’m sorry,” mutters Ange, trying to turn her head away. But Princess won’t let her run - not after they’ve finally found each other again. If she had to, she could make a guess at why there’s guilt written into Ange’s thinned lips, even though her instincts tell her not to press yet.

All she says instead is, “Don’t be,” as she leans down. She presses a long kiss against Ange’s forehead, carefully clear of the bandage, like a benediction. Ange inhales sharply under her. Ignoring Ange’s renewed tension and her own racing pulse, Princess holds the kiss until they both settle into this unfamiliar marvel.

Ange’s smiling for the first time since that rooftop reunion when Princess pulls away. “This is new.”

“Indulge me.” Princess does it again, partly to see Ange’s eyebrows wrinkle cutely, partly just for the thrill. “Can I help anywhere else?”

Ange’s eyes stay closed for a moment more before she breathes out and swings herself upright. Princess watches her go with a twinge of disappointment - till Ange turns around and offers up her left hand, like a parody of a dance request.

“I’d usually take care of this myself,” Ange admits. “But - since you’re offering, indulge me…?”

The red satin of her glove’s palm-side is mostly burnt away. In its stead, an angry red circle blooms on Ange’s palm, fanning out along her fingers. Blisters (thankfully small) trail the creases of the finger joints.

It takes Princess a moment to connect the dots. Ange’s right-handed, so she fires with her right, and the left is… “The C-ball?”

“They couldn’t quite work the kinks out of the prototype.” Ange’s mouth twists; not quite a smile. “Normally I’m more careful than this, though.”

Princess takes the proffered hand and bends over it. It’s a few delicate seconds as she works the glove’s tattered remains off without aggravating the burn further. “I’m afraid this is a little beyond my embroidery skills.”

“I’ll make Control give me one with better padding next time.” Ange plucks an antiseptic cream from the first aid kit. “Make sure to cover it all; it would be bad if it scarred and we didn’t match anymore.”

Princess hums as she smears the cream liberally over Ange’s burns. “Is that still necessary? Operation Changeling?”

“It’s a good backup plan,” says Ange. “If you’re ever in too much danger, I can still take your place. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Says the one covered in scrapes,” scolds Princess. Ange has the decency to look abashed as Princess finishes and wipes the excess cream carelessly onto the towel. It’ll need a good cleaning anyway. “Anywhere else, Charlotte? No - don’t give me that face, indulge me just a little more.”

Ange pats at her face, assessing the grazes on her nose, then at her ribs. “No - makeup can hide the rest. Thank you, Princess.”

Princess claps decisively. “Time for a bath, then,” she says cheerfully. “Might I call Beatrice for her help?”

“Wh - is this going to be a joint operation?”

“Your hair, at the very least. You can’t wash it well with only one hand.” Princess doesn’t wheedle. She prefers ‘gently encouraging and persuasive’.

Ange narrows her eyes at Princess, who affects her most innocent look. At last, she says grudgingly, “No Beatrice yet. Just… just you. Indulge me.”

And she thought she’d never get to see that spoiled, petulant princess again.

“Gladly,” says Princess, smiling uncontrollably as she goes to fill the bathtub.


End file.
